


Drifting Down

by featheredschist



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Wingfic, Wings, mentions of past abuse (incl child)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featheredschist/pseuds/featheredschist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton has wings, and he refuses to mention it to SHIELD when he gets hired/saved. How does Phil react when he finally discovers this secret?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Still playing, do not own!
> 
> Warnings: mentions of past abuses (incl childhood) - you know I'll warn when that comes up. Typical violence that we have come to expect in this fandom. I will adjust tags and character listings as necessary.

He had only one trick left in his arsenal, and it would cost him dearly to use it.

Hovering on the edge of a precipice, literal and figurative, he had seconds to decide before pursuers were on him.

"Dammit" slipped from his mouth. Shrugging off his empty quiver, he unbuttoned his shirt and discards the thin fabric. A bit of concentration and feathers exploded all around him.

He hears shouting that gets louder behind him as he swiftly unstrung his bow, slipping the braided cord into a pouch on his belt before he leapt into the pale blue sky. The shouting cut off as his wings manage to get him out of range of all but sniper rifle fire. He breathed a little easier the further he got, but cursed his luck. He'll have to leave town again, earlier than he wanted.

As he flew, he considered his options and his resources. The gear he left behind is automatically a loss, and it briefly stings. Some of it he'll miss, some is just replaceable drek. At least this job was paid already, regardless of the outcome, though he'd made the shot. His intel hadn't indicated the garrison's worth of guards that had somehow still been around, and had spilled from the house like angry wasps to chase him until they caught him, or he'd escaped. Briefly, he wondered if his intel for the job had been spotty. He'd done the best he could, but the info he'd gotten from his employer could have been incomplete.

He flew for hours, the sun eventually setting, before discovering he was hungry, and needed a place to land. He saw the spire of a church, bell glistening in the dim street lights and spun down to land at a jog in the churchyard where he found a door unlocked and pushed his way inside. Quietly he wandered, looking for a donation box that might have clothes. He hates taking from churches, and always tries to repay them in some fashion.

This time, he's lucky, the donation box is swiftly found, and rifled through. He concentrated and his wings disappear into his back, leaving only silvery gray, tattoo like marks along his entire back. The gray Henley is two sizes too big, but he doesn't care. From another pouch on his belt, he pulled a wad of cash, and went in search of the priest's office.

Once there, he hunted down an envelope and stuffs the cash in, leaving at least $200 in a mix of bills. The return address label tells him he's in Dubuque, Iowa. Well, not the best place to be, but he's been in worse. He just can't go back to Potosi, Wisconsin now. The niggling thought that this job had been a set up to remove him from the business was a growing concern in the back of his mind.

He'd deal with all this, but first, a place to sleep, and food, are in order. He left the church and found a way to town on foot.


	2. Chapter 2 Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson arrives on scene, what does he want with our favorite archer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Do not own, just playing!  
> No trigger warnings in effect for this one. Will probably change.

Two days after landing in Dubuque, Clint decided on a more conventional method of departing that city. The economy car got him back to his last bolthole in far less time than flying. As much as he needed to fly, it wasn't worth getting shot at.

The rental returned, Clint hailed a cab to a diner he frequented while in this town. Settling at the counter, he ordered a cheeseburger and chocolate shake, and caught up on the local news via the waitress. She served him a slice of lemon meringue and told him everything.

"Frank, there's been a stranger looking for you. Wears a fancy suit, speaks like he's not American," she said quietly.

"Really? When was he last here?" Clint asked. He used an alternate identity, Frank Weller, to protect himself, and the town. He twirled his fork as he thought about who might try to find him in person. His usual method was to take jobs via the internet, and he had no idea who would track him down in person.

"Last night, 'bout this time. Told him I didn't know when you'd be back, but he didn't seem to care. Dunno if he'll be back tonight," the waitress looked worried, afraid she'd said too much about his business.

"S'all right Donna. Probably someone with another job," Clint reassured her, finishing the last of his pie. She gave him a tentative smile, and refilled the glass of water in front of him.

He sat for another hour, chatting between her other customers before calling it a night. If the stranger was around, he'd gone elsewhere for dinner.

 

Another eatery in town hosted Clint for breakfast the next day. And it was here that the mystery stranger caught up to him.

"Frank Weller?" a smooth, unaccented voice flowed over Clint as he sat in a booth, with a plate of sawmill and biscuits*.

"Who's asking?" he returned, sliding a piece of flaky biscuit through the creamy gravy.

"Agent Phil Coulson." The monotone, Clint could tell now, is affected, plain enough to make the man before him unremarkable, and harder to pin down where he hailed from.

"Agent huh? Which alphabet agency is curious about me now?" Clint looked up through his lashes at the newcomer.

"Mind if I?" Coulson indicated the other bench in the booth with a slight nod.

"Be my guest," Clint agreed, knowing he could defend himself if it became necessary. He took in the sight of the agent, noting the fine cut of suit, the bland expression and slight balding head. Mentally, Clint approved, if whatever agency needed an everyman, this curious specimen of a man fit the bill.

"We're interested..." the agent began, sitting down, thumbing open the button on his suit jacket. Clint could see the shadow of a shoulder harness as the fabric moved.

"We who?" Clint interrupted, voice cold, eyes hard. He wasn't yet concerned, but his sense of self-preservation was kicking in.

"Ah my apologies," the suit said, hands coming up to lay flat on the table, an overt peace sign, meant to reassure. "I'm with Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. And we're interested in you, and your unique abilities."

At that, Clint's eyes narrowed, even as he stiffened, on the alert for trouble. The mercenary grapevine had whispers about this organization. The number of operatives had been thinned before by these people, in more permanent ways than jail would suggest or even explain. Clint wondered what this group had on him. 

"I see," he said into the tense silence that followed Agent Coulson's speech. "And what do you need an archaic mercenary for?" he wondered aloud. He put his plate to one side, and then put his clenched hands on the tabletop. He mentally went through the list of weapons he had on his person, hoping this meeting didn't go sideways.

"We would like to recruit you," Coulson spoke simply, laying everything out. "I think you're looking for stability, and a way to make sure the jobs you take are good ones. Your record speaks for itself, taking out dealers in drugs, humans, and weapons. But its only been in turf wars, and shadow agencies. We have no rivalries, we just want the evil and rabid taken out with prejudice. Occasionally there's less exciting work, like rescuing cats from trees."

Clint listened and considered the idea. Something about this man put him at ease, and that set off red flags in his mind. It was too easy.

“And just how long is this offer good for?” Clint asked, his fists loosening as he thought about what such job security could mean.

“I'll be here at least through the end of the week. You can contact me via this number,” Phil carefully reached for and produced a card from his pocket, and pushed it across the table. “Breakfast is on me,” he added before getting up and leaving Clint there to think about the offer. The nondescript man headed to the register, and paid Clint's bill.

After finishing his breakfast and leaving a generous tip, Clint headed for his bolthole apartment to do some research. He'd left the card swimming in his mug of coffee, numbers long since memorized.

 

He left it alone for a few days, spending part of the time going over his books. His current stash of money, accounting for call of it in their scattered accounts, would be more than enough to retire on, if he felt inclined. But in his heart, he knew that he'd taken to the mercenary world as a way to balance against his brother. He had no reservations that he'd spend the rest of his life trying to make up for Barney's mistakes.

Clint received a new job offer, via email. More wetworks. The sparse information detailed that his target would be nearby for the foreseeable future. The initial meet was agreed upon, occurring on the 4th day since Clint had met Phil, which was the next morning. It would take place in the next town over from the one Clint was currently living in.

Clint chose to go over his equipment and weapons before going to bed. Everything needed to be in top condition in order to ensure that Clint stayed alive to collect on these jobs. The meeting alone would require all of his attention and energy.

 

In a hotel across town, Phil Coulson passed another day of surveillance with nary a twitch. His partner on this rodeo was Jasper Sitwell, who had the unenviable task of tracking their quarry that day. Who hadn't gone out since breakfast, leaving him stuck on a nearby roof.

“Phil, this guy's boring,” Jasper spoke, just a whisper into the neck comm he wore.

“Washing his hair?” Phil quipped in return, radio easily to hand on the bedside table.

“Yeah, pretty much. Financials, which, damn. Dude's on his way to becoming the next Trump.”

“No, not this one,” Phil spoke with hard conviction, his talent having given him a peek at this one. It had never steered him wrong, and Fury was trusting it wouldn't ever do so.

“Well, you've not been wrong yet. Wait a sec,” Jasper adjusted the spy glass. The email notice for Clint's new job had just arrived. “Barton's got a job offer. Wetworks again. Man, I'd be tired of it all.”

“Details, Jaz, details.” Phil knew there would be a new job in the time it took to convince Barton to sign to SHIELD. He also knew that the offer would somehow affect himself and Jasper.

“Yeah, yeah, keep yer tie on,” Jasper dutifully reported the acceptance with arrangements for a meeting the next day. And then he continued to watch Barton throughout the rest of the day. When the mark turned in, as the sun was disappearing below the horizon, Jasper sighed and stretched.

“God I hate these stakeouts,” he grumbled, packing his gear down and leaving the rooftop he'd been stuck on all day. “Phil, order dinner would you? I'll be there in 20.”

“Sure, the usual?”

“Yeah, that's fine.” Jasper took the fire escape on the far side of the building, and once on the ground, made his way to the car they'd rented.

They reconvened in the hotel room, sharing boxes of Mexican take out and going over the surveillance records.

“We going to the meet tomorrow?” Jasper asked, scooping up Spanish rice.

“Should. Email tracker didn't turn up anything useful. Whomever is hiring Barton this time, is well hidden.”

“The place of the meet is too open for us to do more than passive surveillance. Boy knows what he's doing.”

“Only way to stay alive. Wish we knew more about DuQuesne.”

“If wishes were horses, Phil. You want the shower first?” Jasper finished eating and closed the take out box in front of him.

“No, go ahead. All day stakeouts make you grumpy,” Phil said, finishing off his own food.

“Any wonder?” Jasper quipped, standing up from the little table and going over to the bed.

They had only the one, owing to the need for having more room for their gear, they had requested a King suite, and had only to deal with warding off the staff who wanted to clean the room every other day.

Jasper collected a change of clothes and went into the bathroom, leaving Phil alone. He took the opportunity to send an email to their boss, the Director of SHIELD. While some had thought Barton wouldn't come to heel, Phil knew it would only take the morning meeting to convince the young man to join. But he was going to hate getting shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sawmill gravy - the thick, white gravy, usually complete with sausage chunks in it. Really great breakfast!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking for work, but getting into a fight instead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Do not own anything recognizably Marvel's. The rest is, unfortunately, a product of the madness storming through my gray matter.
> 
> WARNINGS: Canon typical violence in this chapter, nothing super graphic, but care for yourself if you are feeling particularly sensitive.
> 
> However: This chapter comes to you raw and unedited. To that end, please note that anything that looks very off, or completely weird, feel free to leave me a review or PM about. Also note that politeness goes so very much further than anything else. My levels of chronic pain have meant that while I'm writing, I haven't got the tolerance for sitting long enough right now to edit. And 3 months is plenty long enough to leave people waiting to see what happened, hm? Onward.

Clint woke early on the day of his meeting, something ephemeral twinging his instincts. When a thirty minute meditation session gave him nothing, he bottled the unease and got ready for the trip.

 

Across town, Phil and Jasper were already on the move. They wanted good spots from which to watch the proceedings, and Phil wanted some place close enough to assist if the meeting went sour.

 

Clint found the small park with ease, and scouted it out, having planned for a spare hour before the prospective showed. The park was average, small pond with a few waterfowl, a foot bridge across the middle of the pond. A small playground was off to one side, and fortunately, an overcast sky had kept the kids and their parents indoors that day.

He took in the arrangements of picnic tables and the few shade trees. The meet was arranged to happen under the single pavilion, a concrete and steel thing that the prospective had supposedly hired so they wouldn't be bothered that day.

Clint saw a parks employee working near the bridge, forest green coveralls and floppy straw hat the most notable things about the person. From their position and posture, Clint couldn't tell what gender they were, but after ten minutes of watching, scratched them off his internal 'potential threat' list.

At barely five minutes until the meeting began, Clint made his way to the pavilion from one of the shade trees. He doesn't have his bow, too obvious, but was heavily armed never-the-less. At the central table under the steel cover sat a middle aged man in an ill fitting pin striped suit. At the corners to the pavilion stood hulking brutes in leather jackets that didn't really conceal the fact that they were all wearing shoulder harnesses with weapons loaded within.

Clint nearly rolled his eyes at the cliché they made, but resolutely did not, keeping his sharp gaze forward, and face impassive as he moved into close range. He stopped at the edge of the concrete pad and waited.

“Mr. Weller,” the headman spoke, sounding like he had a pack a day habit, and gargled rocks with his coffee.

“Mr. Clarkson,” Clint responded. The man waved him forward. Clint thought Clarkson was stupid for letting him cross into this temporary zone, without checking for weapons, but he thrived on others' stupidity. So he happily stepped into the pavilion under the glare of the four goons.

“Here is the job,” Clarkson said, putting a thumb drive on the table.

“And how am I supposed to look at that here?” Clint snarked. Really, did it look like he had a laptop handy?

Clarkson grinned, all teeth, and waved at one of the guards. “You understand, it is the modern age,” he huffed some kind of sound that might have been a laugh.

Clint just eyed the approaching goon, who had picked up a previously ignored silver briefcase, silently cursing himself for having missed it. The briefcase hit the plastic table with a clack, handle spun towards Clarkson who opened it with swift, sure motions.

The case spun back to Clint, who saw a single, beige folder inside, and no obvious alterations to the case. Clint lifted the file out and laid it on the table. The goon pulled the briefcase away, and retreated. Clint then glanced at Clarkson, who smirked back and indicated the folder with a nod of his head. Mentally sighing, Clint flipped the manila folder open, and started reading the few sheets of printer paper he found inside.

 

His target was known to him, having just met the man three days ago. That information made Clint's gut clench in worry. He read about how talented the recruiter was, capable of impressive feats of infiltration and trained in multiple kinds of weapons. His target was the number two man of an alphabet agency whispered about in dark alleys and gin joints. Clint flipped one page over, to a black and white photograph of an unassuming, middle aged man, slightly balding, and with clear eyes.

Clint's memory super imposed the last time he'd seen Phil Coulson, a little happy, surprisingly relaxed for taking a meeting with one of the better mercenaries in the world.

Clint closed the file, and his eyes, considering. He didn't care why Clarkson wanted Coulson dead, but knew it wasn't rival agencies. Clarkson was all too American, and those groups had other means to deal with individuals they didn't like or couldn't work with on an interagency level.

Clint knew Coulson was on the 'side of angels' as it was termed for the good guys in his usual circle. Clint also believed he knew where he stood. It was good he had such a hefty stash of funds as it looked like he'd be getting out of the mercenary business.

He opened his eyes on Clarkson's evil smirk, and prepared to give his answer.

 

The groundsman swore as he ran out of things to work on on the near side of the tree. He picked up his tools out of the flower bed and considered his next move.

“Begonias, Jaz,” he grunted, seemingly talking to himself.

A dry chuckle reached his ears, “Yeah, gardening for super spies. Fury will laugh himself sick.”

Phil snorted and meandered along the hedgerow, poking and prodding various pieces of brush while he kept a weather eye on the proceedings under the pavilion. “What can you see, Jaz?” he mumbled into the mic.

“Ah crap,” was the succinct answer.

“Okay, changing plans now,” Phil responded. He made it to the golf cart that the gardeners used and reached under the tailgate to retrieve a rifle he'd stashed there. Jasper joined him a few moments later, carrying his own rifle.

“Your boy is in a spot of trouble,” Jasper updated him.

“Not my boy, Jaz. Let's go.”

The pair moved off at a jog, crossing the open area of the park to a row of trash cans where they took cover. The scene under the pavilion was stalemate. The mercenary archer had neatly taken out 2 of the guards, but was now held captive by the others. Clarkson was monologuing over what to do with him.

“My employers are very interested in you, Weller. Your abilities with unconventional weapons, and your famed eyesight,” Clarkson rambled while Clint hung from the grips of the 2 huge goons.

Clint flinched. Whomever had backed Clarkson knew too much about Clint to believe Weller was more than a false identity. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two figures take shelter behind the nearby row of trash cans. He thought he recognized one of them, but couldn't move his head without giving them away.

 

“Okay, what's the plan, Phil?” Jasper asked, checking the sight of his rifle.

“Take out the goons. I'll wing Crappy Suit and we'll see what happens,” answered Phil, as he chambered a round into the rifle.

Unbeknownst to them, there was a back up team coming to assist Clarkson. That team neatly pinned the agents from SHIELD, forcing them to change tactics. Jasper radioed in for backup, then spun in place to support Phil as the senior agent moved forward to attempt a rescue of their potential asset.

When bullets started flying, Clint began to move, jerking himself free of first one no neck guard, who immediately fell with a gunshot wound to the leg. Then wrenched himself free of the second guard, who by virtue of lurching after Clint, avoided the trio of shots that were aimed at him.

Clarkson screamed, demanding someone protect him. Except that his remaining guards were useless, and the support team was ably held off by a gardener with a rifle and 3 pistols.

 

Phil closed on the pavilion, wary of the one guard who he hadn't been able to take out. Several of the tables had been overturned, making a makeshift barrier for that group to hide behind.

“Weller!” Phil called, using the alias they'd been tracking. He hoped Barton was still conscious.

“G-man,” came the reply, if quieter than Phil would have liked.

“Status, Weller.”

“Breathing.”

“Smartass.”

“Best kind.”

Phil was grinning. There was hope yet. He thumbed on his comm, and spoke to Jasper. “Hey, where's our backup?”

“Five minutes.”

“We don't have it.”

“Tell me BLAM about it.” The report from the rifle made Phil try to claw the ear piece out. Jasper hadn't turned the gain down on the mic, again. Phil risked a look behind him, seeing that the group of six had been winnowed to three. Jasper was now just trying to keep them in place.

 

Phil's distraction cost him. The remaining guard under the pavilion took his chance, and Clint was too out of it to react any faster.

A .45 caliber bullet struck Phil in the shoulder, throwing him backwards by half a step. He grunted, forced to shift the rifle to his left arm before attempting to move forward. He hoped the bullet didn't cause more damage than he could live with, but put it all aside, focused on the now. He stepped forward, trading shots with the guard. Neither of them hit the other until Phil managed to double tap the guy in the torso, putting him down.

“Weller,” Phil called again, closer to the pavilion.

“Yeah,” Clint grunted. He had managed to subdue Clarkson while the guard had been focused on defending his puling boss. However, Clint's own state of distress had meant he couldn't do anything about the goon who took pot shots at Clint's rescuers.

Phil came up to the flipped tables and surveyed the scene. Clint was sitting next to Clarkson, who was neatly tangled in his suit jacket and unconscious. The surviving guard was just in front of Phil and trying to unobtrusively crawl his way to the nearest weapon which happened to be near Clint's feet. Phil cold cocked him with the butt of the rifle still in his hands, grunting with the effort it cost him with the injury in his shoulder. The other three guards were cooling bodies.

“Well, this is a fine mess, isn't is, G-man?” Clint said, pain echoing through his words. He frowned, flinching at the pain that made itself known each time he moved or tried to breathe deeply.

Phil's small smile gave Clint a shred of hope. “Yeah well, par for the course.”He turned back to the firefight behind him. “Jaz?” he spoke into his comm.

“Cavalry's coming, Phil,” Jasper already sounded happier.

“Don't call me that,” Melinda May's blessed voice jumped on the end of Jasper's line.

“Mel, if you weren't consistently assigned mop up,” Jasper reminded her.

A growl and a hail of bullets followed his excuse.

“Thank you. Medics to the park pavilion, and containment to the perimeter. Need to keep the public out for the time being,” Jasper began ordering the newly arrived agents around.

Two medic teams approached the pavilion. 

“Agent Coulson?” one jump suited medic asked. There were a pair of gurneys trundling along behind the medics.

“This is probationary agent Clint Barton,” Phil stated, ignoring Clint's quiet “Hey” of surprise. “He's to be treated and held, but not as a prisoner. Begin agent intake on my orders.”

“Yes sir,” the medic replied, “And these?” she looked down at the groaning guard and unconscious Clarkson.

“Remanded to medical protective custody. We'll want to question them so be thorough in checking for suicide measures.” Phil wen to step away from the concrete pad and his legs buckled, tumbling him to the ground.

“Phil!” cried Clint, from his new, prone position on a nearby stretcher.

“Agent!” was the last thing Phil heard, as unconsciousness folded over him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite agents are in Medical. What are their next moves?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, though I keep playing the lottery to make a go of it.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Frank, possibly explicit discussion of injuries. Angst on Clint's part, over his back tatts.

The next time Phil became wholly aware of his surroundings, he was blessed with the sound of inventive cursing in three languages. Phil's mind had cataloged each language – French, German, and Italian – quite before he had his eyes open.

The masculine voice switched back to Midwestern American English to staunchly defend something of vital importance to the owner, “No! Look, you really need to take my word for it, the tatts will NOT come off. You will NOT touch any portion of my skin with any kind of removal cream, or laser, or abrasive. They STAY, or I'll fly this coop...”

Phil was hit with a vision so strong, it made him gasp. As a few of the attendant medical personnel scrambled to check on him, Phil's awareness drifted on the stream of potential. He caught mostly trust, the fleeting sensation of feathers, and a lot of purple. Plus a pair of flashing, and laughing blue eyes. He was abruptly brought back to the present by a very insistent doctor.

“Agent? Agent Coulson, are you with us?” The older woman was not read into his restricted file, was the sole thought Phil had as he came back to himself. He had an arrangement with a particular doctor who knew about his visions, and how to spot when he was engaged. 

“Yes,” he whispered, knowing from experience that his voice wasn't up to snuff after anethestic. A helpful nurse provided a strawed, styrofoam cup, and Phil gently sipped the cool water, letting it roll into his mouth and warm up before swallowing. When he was done, he thanked the nurse, and turned to the doctor. “Well?” he said, not bothering to hide his frustration.

“Yes Agent Coulson,” the doctor blinked, clearly unused to dealing with grumpy, injured agents. “I'm Dr Simi Vashtra, and you're at SHIELD Base 19. Do you remember what happened?”

“Yes, I was on assignment, and involved in a firefight. I might have hit my head,” Phil replied slowly and carefully. His head hurt like he had indeed struck it against the ground. He shifted in the hospital bed, cataloging his aches. His right shoulder burned from the bullet wound, the repair surgery, along with his pounding head, but otherwise, Phil felt whole. He listened to the doctor explain his recovery. It amounted to 4-6 weeks of healing, and upwards of eight weeks of physical therapy. His face contorted at the news. He disliked being stuck behind a desk. “And Mr. Barton?” he finally asked, when the doctor wound down.

Dr. Vashtra frowned, her eyes shifting to Phil's right. Phil carefully rolled his head in that direction, and confirmed the presence of his probie agent sitting on the other bed in the room. Clint Barton was shirtless, and his left arm was strapped to his torso with a padded roll tucked between forearm and trunk. Dark bruises were beginning to appear along his arms and torso. And Phil needed to stop staring any second now.

He saw Phil and grinned madly, apparently under the influence of a similar class of drugs as Phil had for pain. “G-man, explain to your vultures that I am not agent material,” the young merc insisted. 

“I seem to recall naming you a probationary agent, Mr. Barton, is there a problem?” Phil shifted his gaze from Clint to the medical staff.

“Sir,” one of the nurses broke in. “We don't have the facilities here to process a new agent.” He was apologetic, but firm.

“That's fine, he can remain under my purview until we get back to New York. How convenient of you to put him in my room,” Phil spoke as though to children, mentally making notes for his report to include a procedural review for this base. It behooved them to be prepared for anything, as well as realizing that if there was a lack, a senior agent was perfectly able to take charge of the issue. “Now, tell me where Agent Sitwell is, if you please?” 

“I'll get him for you, Agent Coulson,” the nurse said, eager for an excuse to get out of the room. Phil nodded, letting the young man leave.

“Clint? Give me your status please,” Phil requested, turning to look at his new agent.

“M'fine, except for the stressed shoulders,” Clint replied, defiantly looking at the doctor who sniffed in disdain. Apparently, Phil's newest recruit had given the good doctor and her staff some problems.

“Dr. Vashtra, perhaps you have rounds to finish? I'd like to debrief my agent,” Phil suggested harshly, eyes flicking between the two.

“Of course. I'll return later,” the doctor swept out, the rest of her staff trailing after.

Clint leaned over, attempting a touch of conspiracy. “I think she's new,” he said in a loud stage whisper.

Phil's lips quirked, even as one last orderly turned to stare at Clint's audacity. “Okay, now tell me what that was all about?” Phil asked, voice soft and cajoling.

Clint took a deep breath and slid off the side of his bed, to his feet. He turned around, baring the detailed, silvery black wing tattoos that covered his skin from the nape of his neck to the small of his back.

“Those are impressive,” Phil said encouragingly, while hiding his sudden interest in the firm muscle tone that rippled as Clint moved and breathed.

Clint kept himself relaxed under Phil's gaze, unaware of Phil's interest. “They wanted to remove them,” Clint whispered tightly.

“And?”

“Nothing will remove them.”

Phil had the feeling that Clint meant more than the tattoos, but he wouldn't press. He was acutely aware that Clint's trust was a fragile thing, and he had to respect this young man, or he'd be useless as an agent.

“Well, puts a damper on undercover work, but nothing we can't work around,” Phil decreed. A knock at the door had Clint stiffening in surprise even as he turned to look at Phil who shrugged and said, “Come.”

The door opened to reveal a very relieved Jasper. “Fury'll have my ass for this screw up,” he said with a negative shake of his head, as he moved into the hospital room. Jasper ignored the fact that Phil's latest hire had a full back tattoo, and instead, grabbed the plastic visitor chair to sit in.

“The whole affair was going to go FUBAR, sir,” Clint said quietly from the other bed he'd resumed sitting on.

“Explain,” Phil ordered. 

“The job I was interviewing for?” Clint began, getting nods of agreement from the two agents. “That was an order for a hit on you,” the archer pointed to Phil. “Not sure who Clarkson worked for, if anyone.” Clint shrugged. “Too small potatoes to go after SHIELD's biggest, if I'm honest. But I didn't have time to dig too deep. His bodyguards were too polished. I think they'd worked together before, and for a long while, which tells me they weren't his to begin with.” He stopped, having caught sight of the open surprise on Jasper's face. He missed the respect on Phil's as he closed down, eyes dropping to the linoleum, unwilling to keep going in the wake of discovering someone else not realizing he was smart enough to figure this stuff out.

“No, this is good intel,” Phil said, an eager light in his eyes. “Jasper, Clarkson could be the in we've needed. Who's got lead on...”

“Whoa, Phil! The only thing you'll be doing is debriefing, and then going back to New York for extensive recovery,” Jasper interrupted Phil's excitement for their plans, knowing he'd work through the injury, regardless of what the doctors preferred.

Phil Coulson was dedicated to his job, that was a known quantity. It was frequently up to his co-workers to corral his dedication and make sure he took appropriate down time, and that he healed right from any injuries that he received on missions.

“Maybe you two can keep each other out of trouble for a few weeks?” Jasper hinted, hoping to get the two of them out of his non-existent hair for awhile. If he was reading Phil correctly, and since it was his job to, then there was *something* between these two already.

“I'm sure Barton has a different preference?” Phil shunted the issue. He didn't need to share space with a man that drove his curiosity to the max, and that he might have a hidden lust for.

Clint blushed, a rosy color that covered his face and went down his chest. Phil noted that it didn't seem like he was a full body blusher, but it was a good shade on him. He forcefully redirected his gaze to Jasper who gave him a knowing look. Phil frowned, he was not that transparent! They could not afford any hint of impropriety at this juncture.

“Unless there's a clause in the contract stating otherwise, I'm at loose ends until my arms heal,” Clint admitted, looking at his knees. One foot shook side to side, a tell on his nervousness.

“What, specifically, is wrong?” Phil wanted to know. A half assed diagnosis of “fine” wasn't going to cut it.

“Complete dislocation of the left shoulder, and 70% strain to the right. Doc's forbidden weapon access,” Clint owned up, as it wasn't like Phil wouldn't learn about it later.

“See, together you make almost a whole agent!” Jasper chortled at his terrible joke.

“Well done, Jaz, take it on the circuit,” Phil chided. Jasper childishly stuck his tongue out at his co-worker. “We can get Mr. Barton started on the less physical work of an incoming agent,” Phil asserted instead of responding in kind. He wanted something to throw, but even his injuries would object.

“Sounds good to me. Barton?” Jasper looked at the young man and got a nod in return.

“So long as they don't try to remove m'tatt, we're good.” Clint lay back in the bed, the medication he'd been given for pain finally catching up to him. His eyes were trying to close, but he kept fighting the dragging feeling so he could continue to participate in decisions about his life.

“Sleep Barton, it's safe,” Phil assured, watching the former mercenary settle into the thin mattress, wiggling a little to get comfortable. “Jaz, blankets,” he added in an undertone.

Jasper got up, and looked for spare blankets in the room's closet. He grabbed two, and brought them over to Clint's bed. There was one already puddled half on the floor and he had to straighten that one out before adding the others over the reclining form of Clint Barton.

“Thanks,” Phil murmured, losing his own fight against pain medication and sleep.

“Take your own advice Phil. I've got the watch,” Jasper said as he settled back into his plastic, hard chair for the duration. He fished his phone out of his pocket and began typing up preliminary notes for the reports they'd have to file when they got out of Medical.

In a day or two, they'd all be on a plane back to New York, and maybe they'd learn more about this enigma called Clint Barton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay cats and kittens, I've had to change my updating schedule (what updating schedule, I know). Go here: http://featheredschist.dreamwidth.org/20801.html for all the news.
> 
> Questions, comments, whatever, send them my way.
> 
> HIATUS MESSAGE: 3/1/16 I am on hiatus for the foreseeable future to deal with personal stuff. Please don't leave comments asking for updates, they negatively impact my depression recovery. Thank you.


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